Alpha And Omega
by Moody Peach
Summary: What's a king to a nonbeliever? — Zahi/Stanton.


Disclaimer: I don't own _Daughters Of The Moon_.

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_Zahi is a master of deceit. He's like a chameleon. He can mold his personality to show you only the person you want to see..._

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It is 1923 when they meet. America is a glittering landscape of liberty, a beacon of prosperity and wealth. Jewels and riches.

"You're the European prince, yes?" The man—a _boy_, actually, just like Stanton, although their path to manhood had arrived the moment the icy flames hugged their eager bodies—is wearing a disheveled button-up shirt, scarlet red, and the smell of sweat and cigarettes clings to him. Stanton offers him a hand, but the boy—with caramel-colored skin and coffee-brown eyes—merely lights a cigar.

"Was I interrupting you?" Stanton scans the squalor around him. It's a meager apartment complex, the hallway carpet patterned with stains, and from what Stanton can glimpse of through the front door to the boy's apartment is a similar sight; dirty old books scattered across the floor, walls eggshell white, the floor marred with brown and black splotches.

The boy snorts, a plume of smoke escaping through his nose. "No. I just finished."

"Who is she? A Follower? Or...?"

"One of us," he answers plainly, casting a bored glance behind him. "What do you want?"

Stanton, cocking his head every so slightly, offers the boy a wry smile. "To meet you. I've learned of your accomplishments, and how quickly you came about them. I'm impressed."

"I am pleased to meet your standards, _prince_," the boy responds, his tone a mockery of generosity. "But you and I know both know your answer is a lie."

"We're all liars," Stanton smoothly responds, "and it should come of no surprise to somebody so ambitious and intelligent. Or so I've heard of you."

The boy sighs heavily. "More compliments, no?" Leaning against the door frame, he eyes Stanton intensely, and the prince responds similarly—having never been one to behave like a dog, averting its gaze in shame when confronted with a creature of higher importance and prowess. This boy is delicate. Breakable. _New_. His ascension to immortality in such a short frame of time is, indeed, admirable. However, those who stand firm fall harder and swifter than those who delegate their talents.

"I am merely congratulating you."

"You are a liar," the boy seethes, piquing Stanton's amusement; the bitterness rolls off of him in waves, and the prince wants nothing more than to bask in it, to further push this boy over the edge. "You are establishing your presence. You are letting me know who's the 'king' and who's the 'peasant.' I will have none of your _merde_."

Stanton laces his fingers through his hair, as to convey a sense of nervousness, although his crooked smile deceives him. "I deeply apologize for offending you. Truly. Next time I will exercise greater sensitivity."

The boy's nostrils flare. "There won't be a next time, _Stanton_. And if there is, I am sure you will be nothing more than a _servus_ licking the dog shit off my boot."

"If you say so, Zahi."

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The bar is near empty, a few local patrons lurking on stools and spilling their sorrows into their empty glasses. Stanton is, frankly, _bored_. There is no genuine game in feasting off the pain of men and women who have lost everything. They are damaged, open wounds distressing anybody nearby; they are poor, they are alone, and they are reeling from the war. Widowed women alongside men who see splatters of brain and blood wherever they are, even in their sleep.

Stanton stifles a yawn.

"You as well, comrade?"

The prince, his spine now erect, inclines his head toward his surprising companion. A boy. No. Zahi. Decades divide them, yet he speaks of somebody greeting an old friend.

"You seemed lost in thought," Zahi continues, unraveling the scarf wrapped around his neck, "and bored, and now I see why." He gestures to the three men perched at the bar, the heaviness of their loss weighing on their shoulders. "Mortals can be quite pathetic."

The prince nods once. "They volunteered to be soldiers, and yet were surprised by the results?" He scoffs. "This is not enjoyable. This is nauseating."

"That man's wife is barren," Zahi says, pointing at the fatter of the three, a man whose neck has all but disappeared, "which is good because I do want to exist on a planet where such men are allowed to spawn little pudgy-faced clones of themselves."

Stanton chuckles. "I agree. Although I don't know what I expected when I entered this place."

"An adventure?" The black-haired Follower folds his hands together and rests his elbows on the table. "Or perhaps companionship?" The prince arches an eyebrow, to which he adds, "Not that companionship, my friend. Do you have a story you wish to tell but can't?"

"No. I was curious about this bar. It was not familiar to me."

Zahi pouts, mockingly that is, and asks, "I don't think you are telling the truth. Is there a secret? Do you wish to defect from the Atrox? Do you miss mortality? Are you in love with a bitch _dea_?"  
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_After a pregnant pause, both men_—boys_, really—laugh loudly, their lips curling back to reveal broad grins.

"You have a story," Zahi states after his laughter has ceased, his eyes glistening, "and I want to hear it. You are a prince. You _are_ history. You've created history like a spider weaving its web. We all have. I want to know."

A moment passes, and Stanton can't quench the warmth engulfing his body. Words once silenced and words once forgotten tangle at the base of his throat, and he realizes—or recognizes—the core of his being; the essence of his misery. It is in the silence. It is in the self-hared. Of course as quickly as these revelations emerges they are squandered by his self-control. Instead he merely nods once, and then speaks.

He tells a story of a great prince in a castle.

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_"What atrocity did you commit, Stanton?"_

_"I destroyed two Followers. They were traitors. They sought the Woman. Maggie. They sought her love and her light, and I ended their lives in return. They were adolescents, too."_

_"Ah. I'm certain it was rough for the Woman. She has a soft spot for young girls."_

_"She is their protector. I was in their heads. In their memories. She had sworn to protect them, but when they left, all they found was me."_

_"Was there any other reason to destroy them?"_

_"They were traitors. They tried to find hope. Love. Worse so was the narcissism. Why do they deserve freedom? It was vain and reckless."_

_"You were envious then?"_

_"No. I was performing the work we are meant to."_

_"I would not have cared."_

_"You seem to not care about many matters in life."_

_"I care about words, and how and when people speak them. And the 'why.' It is knowledge I need."_

_"To exploit them?"_

_"Why else, Stanton? Now tell me the story of your atrocity."_

_"What's the point? It was centuries ago."_

_"What's the point in a story? Stories are a map to our essence. It's a imprint on humankind's collective soul. A man's story is the only soul he possesses. A story is the only act of truth we can know."_

_"We do not have souls."_

_"We have stories, and I want to hear yours."_

_"... Their names were Jane and Katherine..." _

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"You did what?"

"I've already told you, Stanton." Zahi waves his hand dismissively.

Stanton, sitting before him, widens his eyes. "You slept with a goddess? A _goddess_?"

"Yes."

"And for what purpose?" The prince places his hands on the back of his head while attempting to produce a rational reaction from the Follower; however, the man—a boy, really—merely stares blankly, utterly bored. "She is still a goddess. You did not steal her soul. You did force her to turn on her moon mother. You _fucked_ her and left?"

"It was for fun," Zahi remarks, chuckling lightly. "What other reason must I produce?"

"For fun?" Stanton furrows his eyebrows. "By confessing you have now made me an accomplice in your crime."

"_Crime_? What crime?" The black-haired man delivers a peculiar smile, one Stanton can't quite decipher. "I had fun. I enjoyed myself. I am a disgusting person, and I commit filthy acts. I was also rather drunk." He coughs twice, embarrassed. After all Zahi is not a lightweight. He is a creature of old whiskey and fine cigarettes. "Neurological impairment. Poor judgment."

"There are millions of girls—"

"And _men_," he interjects.

Stanton leans back against the chair, absolutely befuddled. "Why would you sleep with a Daughter?"

"Why would I not? I'm hardly the first to do so."

"They had their reasons," he remarks wearily, "and it was for power and wealth."

"How boring. I wanted to have fun. I _had_ fun."

"I'm glad you enjoyed yourself," Stanton responds, tone drowning in sarcasm, "but the Atrox may very well not accept that answer."

Zahi arches an eyebrow. "Will you tattle tale on me, Stanton?"

"No. But it's only a matter before somebody else finds out—"

"Oh, I have told many others already. You're not special. You are not even a friend."

"I am aware. And, remind me, _why_ is it you pester me then?"

The Follower laughs heartily. "_You_ are fun too, you know. Even with your flare for theatrics."

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The Followers are celebrating, although the very core of their celebration is missing. Stanton, in fact, is lingering in the far corner of the warehouse, his lips pressed into a permanent frown. When Zahi approaches in his typical candid manner, Stanton narrows his eyes.

"You are too curious, Zahi."

"No, you are a fascinating subject," he responds dryly. "Why are you pouting?"

Stanton pinches the bridge of his nose. "I'm not pouting. None of this is necessary."

"You crossed over a Daughter."

"No," he snaps, face flushed, "it was her decision. She volunteered."

"No doubt because of your previous encounters with her."

"I never slept with Zoe. I do not deserve credit for any of this."

Zahi rolls his eyes. "You didn't have to _fuck_ her. You are persuasive. You act and speak as if you are performing a play, and the drama of it all is an enthralling sight. And why wouldn't you sleep with Zoe?"

"She's a Daughter."

"They are as wild as they are beautiful," he says matter-of-factly, a suggestive smile playing across his face. "You would love it. You would love to know the body of a goddess. Just once."

"I would _love_ to be left alone."

"You are dramatic, Stanton," Zahi sighs, seemingly disappointed, and takes several steps backward while refusing to break away from the prince's red hot gaze. "It will be the death of you. Goodbye, comrade."

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_"What are their names?"_

_"You don't know, Zahi? Seriously?"_

_"I have just returned from France, Stanton, and after centuries of these antics, it becomes rather difficult to care about goddesses."_

_"Jimena, Catty, Vanessa, and Serena."_

_"Ah. Now I know the names of these girls I've heard many rumors about."_

_"Their existence is international, too?"_

_"Of course. There is the daughter of Adamantis and Zoe amongst them. And the Key. Tell me what we know of these four."_

_"Catty is Zoe's daughter. She can time travel."_

_"Who is Jimena?"_

_"She acts as their 'leader,' I've gathered. She is incredibly powerful, and can see into the future, but never at will."_

_"And who is Serena?"_

_"The Key. I know nothing about her."_

_"Hmm. Vanessa then? Correct?"_

_"Yes. She can become invisible. She is kind, too kind for her own good."_

_"They are always the most fun. Anyway, I find myself most intrigued by the Key."_

_"You are 'most intrigued' by a person we know nothing about? That's stupid."_

_"It's human. We are attracted to the not knowing."_

_"We're not humans."_

_"On the contrary, we are aspects of humanity tucked away in fairy tales and poems. We share the same evil as any other human—we are simply unashamed of it. Well. Most of us. Goddesses, however... They are not human. They are dangerous and devastating. Cosmic. That is why it was fun to be inside of one, ha ha."_

_"You are sick."_

_"At least I'm not a liar. Unlike you. You're a bad liar, in fact."_

_"I'm not a bad liar."_

_"True. Perhaps I mean to say you lack perceptiveness. You are delusional."_

_"Are the insults necessary, Zahi?"_

_"These are truths. As I told you: stories have truths, and truths are weaknesses. Wait. I have never elaborated that final part. Well, now you know. To know a man's story after he has expressed it, is to know his truths. Because every truth casts light, and that light has a shadow: a man's weakness."_

_"What the hell are you rambling about?"_

_"I have made plans since the moment I met you, boy. I am patient. I always have been."_

_"You were abrupt and hostile, and very impatient. Yet you're claiming I'm delusional?"_

_"How little you know of me. And it's a fact of your nature. You've built yourself from the words of others. You were made from the life and experiences of others. The knight who was sent to protect you, and failed. It made you bitter and faithless. And the angel who tried to rescue you as a child. It was your source of light, a light you've always hated. And all the stories I gave you."_

_"If I recall, you made me tell the stories."_

_"I didn't tell you I slept with a goddess to jest at you. I planted an idea in your head, and it seeped into your skin, you foolish, prideful, dramatic idiot."_

_"You whine and rant! All you do is ramble! You never speak, and I'm tired."_

_"It's a monologue, and I'm having fun. You've always been the most forward of Followers when it came to approaching goddess, and learning about them. It was a talent of yours. It's why Zoe chose to fall. You asked her a question, a small question about her choice, and it scared her, and you knew it would. I thought it was poetic. You found it tragic. You are a powerful, knowledgeable man, Stanton." _

_"Of course I learn about them. I need to. They are prey to us. You said so yourself. It's easier to exploit somebody once they have opened up to you. And it's what I do."_

_"And yet you know 'nothing' about the Key?"_

_"..."_

_"Of course."_

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"Call off your Followers," Stanton demands giving no room for niceties, and several partygoers within earshot hastily vacate the area. Zahi, his arm snaked around a young man's shoulders, motions for him to retreat as well, and suddenly the two immortal men – boys whose eyes have seen centuries unravel before them – are alone in a booth in the Dungeon.

Zahi tilts his head. "Why?"

"I claimed her. It's within my right."

"We're playing 'finder's keepers' now? We are not children," he says, his smirk further infuriating the prince. "Well, you _are_ the loser and I want you to weep."

"I'm more powerful than you."

"Yet here I am, so much of an obstacle that you must confront me. Are you being sentimental again, Stanton? Do you miss what we had, and wanted to play nice before playing dirty – "

"I don't miss anything," he interrupts, slamming one fist on the table, "I am _tired_ of you."

Zahi's smile widens. "I'm not tired of _you_, old friend. I want the glory of seducing the Key. It's what you owe me after what I have taught you. Granted you never truly _learned_, but it is the principle, yes?"

"You have not taught me anything," he responds, staring at Zahi through slitted eyes, "except to never trust anybody."

"That _is_ something – "

"If you don't stop now, I will be forced to destroy you."

"How fun. You know how much I _adore_ fun." A contemplative expression passes across his face, and he leans backs against the chair, arms folded over his chest. "It's funny, no? This is how we first met: in hostility. Well, I was hostile. I _needed_ to be. You feed off those types of emotions. They make you feel superior, and it's much easier to knock down an egoistic bastard who's playing Jenga with his pride. You've built your own throne off your own self-perceived holiness."

"I will make sure you disappear off this earth," Stanton seethes before angrily tearing himself away from the booth and shoving through the crowd of drunk dancers.

Zahi whistles softly. "Dramatic."


End file.
